On Location
by BarkingPup
Summary: “Your assignment is to find this homicidal maniac and capture him for psychological evaluation and potential incarceration.” Johnny's Past. Chapter 10 up! See profile for updates.
1. SNAFU

**Chapter 1- S.N.A.F.U**

They were the elite, the best, the specialists. When they were called, it was a definite S.N.A.F.U. Each and every one of them were handpicked from the army. They had no ties to the outside world and thus had no desire to leave the protective confines of the base. Outside of the base, they didn't exist. No birth certificates or marriage licenses existed for them. They were invisible. They were trained extensively and experienced the dregs of humanity early on in their life. They killed without batting an eyelash, infiltrated seamlessly, studied, noted and acted.

They were good.

And some were great.

* * *

S.N.A.F.U means: Situation normal; all fucked up.

**Author Notes: **So this is the super secret fic I've been working on. I got the idea from a really weird dream I had and it's basically a sort of Crackpast on Johnny's part. Trust me, it's definitely NOT what you think. Yes, it will be confusing... really confusing but, hopefully, in the end it all makes sense.

I'm on Chapter 6 at the moment! The first pre-written fic I've done!

Many thanks to Androgynous Napkin for Betaing! Check out her stories, especially her Pep/Squee (mmmm... Pep/Squee gargle)

Oh yeah, I don't own Johnny but I do own Wendy, Oliver, George, Timothy and whatever other characters show up in here... Blah.


	2. John Nodle the Specialist

**Chapter 2- John Nodle the Specialist**

Tall, dark and unfortunately not that handsome. Kenny sighed. John Nodle looked more like a really tall, gangly teenager... er, **old**-looking teenager with a nose that could break rocks if it wanted to. His elbows stuck out in every which direction, perhaps mimicking his black, badly-cut hair, and his uniform hung off his thin frame in loops and folds. The only truly threatening thing about him, really, were his eyes. Intense, dark and deep-set.

Kenny sat at his desk and nervously shuffled papers under that dark gaze. The man sitting beside him stared ahead impassively, his blonde hair and baby-face more suited to modelling than the army.

Kenny leaned sideways. "Um... is this really the best guy you have?"

The man turned bright blue eyes to meet his. "Yes."

"Oh... well... okay." Kenny straightened and faced John. "John Nodle! You have been chosen to investigate a strange happening in The City."

John did not speak but raised an eyebrow.

"Er... the people don't have much imagination there. But, anyway, there have been strange goings on in The City."

Kenny coughed, took a drink of water and continued. " First incident: Three bystanders claimed to have seen a thin, dark-haired man wandering around The Park. After... uh, well the time frames are pretty different so... um, after a little while the man went up to a... hobo... um, they say the guys name was 'One-eyed CrackJack' and he was 'living in that van' so... I guess he's a hobo... but, anyway! The... hobo began to talk to the dark-haired man... um, rant, really but that's just a minor detail and the dark-haired man proceeded to... 'go all... schizzy-like with... the Juice?'"

Kenny peered closely at the paper, brow furrowed. "...er, proceeded to freak out I suppose. Then he ripped out the hobo's eyes with a spoon and disembowelled him with a nearby needle."

Kenny glanced at Nodle and his guest. He swallowed at their blank expressions and nervously cleared his throat. "This is where it gets a bit weird... one witness says the man began ranting and screaming at the sky then died. Another says the man went on a killing spree in the park and killed ten other people. The third claims he saw Satan himself 'rise up from the bowels of hell and take the sinner with him'."

Kenny took a deep breath. "Second incident: An old lady was walking her dog down the street when she saw a tall, dark-haired man. He had torn, black clothing and wild hair. She says he was covered in blood and was leaving a trail of blood behind him. Well... she thought it was dyed water until she heard about some sort of mass murder at the mall and thought the man had been walking away from that direction." Kenny shuffled his papers. "Third incident: Several people on the street claim a dark-haired man killed a roadside mime by stapling him to a wall and draining him of blood."

"So some sort of mass murderer?"

Kenny jumped, papers flying everywhere. "Uh... yes, yes! Precisely... um, t-there's been a lot of other unexplained, horrific murders but none have been tied to... um, to him." Kenny tried to right all of the loose papers and failed miserably.

"And my assignment?"

Kenny swallowed. Okay, so the agent looked relatively harmless except for his eyes... and his voice. "Uh... y-your assignment is..." He flipped through the mismatched papers in his hand, losing several of them to the mercy of the floor.

"Your assignment is to find this man and possibly capture him for psychological evaluation and potential incarceration."

John's dark eyes settled on his Commander's baby blue's. "Does the subject need to be fully intact?"

A lock of platinum blonde fell in front of the Commander's wide eyes. "Not necessarily."

John nodded briskly, saluted to Kenny and turned on his heels out the door.

Kenny let out a breath and relaxed is hands, the papers flinging into the air. "So... he's your best?"

The Commander turned his eyes to Kenny's and smiled angelically. "Of course."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Chapter 2 and the story will be on a sort of schedule after this! I don't know, I'm really bad at remembering stuff like that so some chappies may be late. Hmmm... how about every Saturday? Maybe...

Thanks to Androgynous Napkin for betaing! Check out her stories! I command you! Buahahahahahaha!


	3. 7th Heaven

**Chapter 3- 7****th**** Heaven**

John pulled into the driveway of 777 Street Beside The Police Station Street. The house wasn't much, barely large enough for one person but he was undercover and could not stand out too much. John got out of his grey car and fiddled for the keys to the front door. He finally found one that fit and opened the door to his new home.

"A-CHOO!"

_Shit... the previous owner must have had cats. _John's suspicions were confirmed as the wind from the door stirred up a thick layer of dust liberally dispersed with cat hair. John wiped his nose on his sleeve, lacking Kleenex, and closed the door behind him. The bright sunlight shone rather pathetically through the dusted windows, lighting up the rickety wooden interior. John sighed. Cleaning was ahead. Lots of cleaning.

He made his way carefully to the old table, trying not to stir up too much dust, and sat down. He took out his new file and flipped it open just as his cellphone rang.

Click.

"Hey, Noodle Boy!"

"This is a secure line, you don't need to use code names."

"I know, but your codename is just perfect for you! You should change your name to Noodle Boy, John."

"I would prefer not to."

"Ah, well, it was worth a try. So, anyway, have you checked your file?"

John glanced down. "I am doing that right now... why do I not have a last name?"

"What?"

"It says 'Johnny C.'"

"Weird. One sec." There was a shuffle, faint shouting, loud arguing, another shuffle. "Sorry, Noodle Boy, those fucking filers screwed up again. Um... okay, so for now just call yourself Johnny C. and we'll get you a proper last name as soon as those filers get the memo."

"Understood."

"Heh, always so formal. Well, see ya!"

John clicked his cellphone shut and stared at the sheets in front of him.

_So... Johnny C. age twenty three, artist and a recluse eccentric. I can do this. Shit, I've done worse._

All of his new clothes were in his suitcase, the pantry already stocked, everything ready to live in. John checked his gun holster and sighed.

Cleaning time.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Are you confused yet?

Seriously, I _said _it wasn't what you think. This story will confuse the fuck out of you, I swear. My beta says so. Which reminds me, thankies to Androgynous Napkin for betaing and suffering such mind-bending confusion!

I know I _suggested_ I would update on Sat.'s but, to be honest, I just don't care so I guess I might be updating twice a week on whatever days...


	4. Meet Thy Neighbour

**Author's Notes: **Soooooorry it took sooooo long but our phone lines were down and Telus JUST came out to fix it! So, here is chapter 4 and 5 of On Location. Fer people who haven't seen my profile yet I'm focusing on finishing this story before I start working heavily on Dim, Kornicopia and any other miscellaneous stories I can't remember.

**Chapter 4- Meet Thy Neighbour**

John went out the next day for some scouting. He put on the black clothing his superiors had provided him with and struggled into the metal-tipped boots. The army had really tried their best with his new clothes but, as always, they fit him poorly. Sometimes John wished he had a different body type, just so **one shirt** would fucking fit! After trying to stick his feet into the tight boots for fifteen minutes he finally noticed the buckles and moaned.

Seriously, how stupid could you get?

John stood and stomped, wincing. They had made the boots too small but he had not noticed another pair so these were going to have to do. He walked out the front door and was almost blinded by the sunlight reflecting off his boots.

_Okay, I'll have to do something about that later._

He proceeded down the street, mentally taking notes. A few things became quite obvious as he strolled leisurely through downtown.

A) The city was **the **most unimaginative he had ever seen. He must have passed at least three "The Cafe's" in a row and every street name merely referred to some building close to it. Which also meant one street could have a million 'other' names also written underneath it's common one, resulting in massive street signs.

B) Perhaps there were drugs in the water because every single person he passed seemed to be doing or saying something stupid and/or aggravating. So far he had passed a group of pimply teenagers bragging about the girls they had banged while supposedly different girls dressed in strings hung off their elbows, two emo's sitting on the steps of Taco Hell and calling insults to people who passed (they called John a 'fag because he was skinny' which, logically made no sense), and a flock of cheerleaders twittering and squeaking to each other, shoving bystanders into traffic if they didn't move out of their way.

C) Which brought him to the next observation: no one seemed to notice **anything**. Sure, the people noticed traffic when it was barrelling down upon them even though the drivers themselves seemed to be driving with their eyes closed but they did not notice the people who shoved them into traffic. John timed each strange encounter and found a giant robot stomping through town, a group of teenagers getting smushed by a bus, and a herd of chipmunks did not warrant any notice at all (Well, to be fair it wasn't precisely a giant robot but it **was **going on a rampage, albeit a small one). Then again, **he **seemed to warrant a lot of attention and, despite all of his attempts to keep under the radar, people seemed compelled to insult him in some way.

John stopped by a cafe (called, for some odd reason, Cafe le Cafe) and stopped in their bathroom. He pulled out a beaker and filled it with water to test in his portable lab later on. With a great sigh and a wince for his poor feet, John walked back onto the street. Unfortunately (or was that fortunately?) the fact that a mother pushing a baby stroller straight into traffic caused no commotion whatsoever tweaked his last brain cell and he turned on his heel and practically ran back home.

John fiddled frantically with his keys, cursing each piece of unmarked metal, occasionally glaring at the pitted wooden door.

"Hello, you must be our new neighbour!"

John glanced up. A pleasant-looking woman with a plate of Saran Wrapped cookies smiled at him.

"Uh... yes. Just moved in." John held out his hand, "Johnny C."

The woman laughed and manoeuvred the plate so she could shake hands. "I'm Wendy. Wendy Jassof." She repositioned the plate and glanced down. John followed her eyes and noticed a tiny boy hiding behind her legs. "And this is Timothy. He doesn't talk. The doctor's say its some sort of trauma but I can't think of a single traumatic event he's seen or been through."

John gazed at the wide-eyed boy. "I see. Well, would you like to come in? I'm afraid it's rather messy."

"Oh certainly! Come, Timothy."

John opened the door and held it open for Wendy and Timothy. Wendy immediately put the cookies on the table. Timothy stared forlornly at them until John pulled the Saran Wrap off and handed him a cookie. The boy stared at it like it was a poisonous snake but took it anyway and began nibbling the edges.

"Oh my, your house is quite nice! I love the wallpaper."

John glanced at Wendy. "Oh? Thanks. Personally, I think it's rather... tacky... or at least the color is."

Wendy laughed. "Perhaps red **could **be tacky but combined with the flowers and the counters it looks all right. Not like that 775."

"What about it?"

"Oh, the house is in absolute ruins. There's not even a lawn! And he won't fix it, either! I've asked him countless times to plant a lawn or... or paint that horrid door but he just gives me this... this crazy look and walks away!"

"Oh? And what's his name?"

"Hmm... I think it's Oliver something."

John noted Timothy jumped and twitched when his mother spoke the name. _These people, or at least, Timothy, seem to have some sort of information. _"Well, considering I'm rather new I need to know all of the gossip. Spill."

Wendy complied happily, talking so much her tea became rather cold before she had even sampled it. All throughout her tirade John noted Timothy, twitching and shivering every time the name 'Oliver' was spoken.

_Next, I'll pay a visit to 775 and this Oliver fellow._


	5. Oliver The Homicidal Neighbour

**Author's Notes: **Stuff...

**Chapter 5- Oliver The Homicidal Neighbour**

John carefully poured the bathroom water sample into an unbreakable and sealed tube. He placed it into its protective case and placed the entire thing into a box. He added some of Wendy's cookies for good measure and taped the box with his industrial roll of tape. He wrote the address of the Labs on it and made a mental note to send it off next time he went into town.

John... no, he had to start thinking of himself in his alias. Johnny sat at the table, bored. Very, very bored. He had already unpacked Headquarters food package. Usually he wasn't too thrilled that he had to eat canned items but on this assignment he felt joy bubble inside as he pulled out fifty cans of skettios. He really, REALLY did not want to end up like the townspeople, If the problem really was in their water... or food.

John...ny twiddled his thumbs. Oh, wait... he was planning on visiting 775_. _Assured of a new purpose he leaped up and proceeded to put on his boots with only three hundred winces. He valiantly flung the door open and slammed it behind him, striding down the street to 775.

Ding... dong...

No answer.

Ding... dong...

No answer.

Ding... dong...

Johnny growled and contemplated smashing the nearby window in with his fist ,which was immediately followed by shock as he would have blown his cover quite fast performing that feat. He usually wasn't so violent and irritated—

The door creaked open ever so slightly."Yes?"

Johnny jumped and quickly plastered a smile on his face. "Hello! I'm from 777 and was just wondering-"

"Ooooh, you got the heaven house."

"...Yes. Anyway I was wondering—"

"See any ghosts yet?"

"No. Should I have?"

"Maybe. The last occupant said he saw ghosts."

"Oh. Well, no, I haven't."

"Too bad."

"Uh-huh... well, anyway I was just wondering what you know about Timothy. He seems like such a nice kid but-"

The door swung open and Johnny stepped back in shock. Oliver grinned at him, eyes wide. "Little Tim-Tim! Oh, I could tell so much about him! Oh... but maybe he doesn't want me to. Oh well, I think **everyone** should know about Tim-Tim!"

Oliver grabbed Johnny's arm and pulled him inside. Johnny tried to quell the urge to hit him and settled for gazing around the man's house. The entire place was even worse on the inside; peeling paint, various unsettling stains, broken glass and various odds and ends. Oliver sat on a milk crate and motioned for Johnny to take a chair. Said man did and hoped it wouldn't collapse on him as it creaked and moaned.

"So... whaddya wanna know?"

"Um... what kind of kid is he?"

"He's... quiet." Oliver snickered, "He's real nice... despite that fleabag of his always twisting his mind."

"Fleabag?"

"That stupid cat. Speaking in tongues and trying to get Tim-Tim to burn things. It's an evil flea-infested ball of static!"

Johnny blinked. "Okay. I think I'll leave now. Thanks for the information..."

"Oh my, completely forgot!" Oliver stood and extended a calloused hand. "Oliver Helding."

Johnny took his hand and shook once. "Johnny C."

"Nice ta meetcha, Johnny C. Be sure to stop by anytime!"

Oliver walked over to the door and opened the creaking aperture.

"Oh, yes, I'll be certain to stop by... sometime." Johnny walked back to his house in deep thought. He had a suspect for all the strange murders yet... something seemed off about Oliver... about the whole city, really. Johnny absently walked around a cat sleeping on the sidewalk. He couldn't be sure... but something was wrong with this scenario.


	6. Happy Nail Bunny

**Chapter 6- Happy Nail Bunny**

It had been a very exhausting two months what with Johnny's frequent (and becoming less and less frequent) trips into town, trying to get Wendy to spill something useful other than prattle, and Johnny struggling to get a hold of Oliver... whom, for some reason, was never home whenever Johnny knocked. Wendy babbled something about Oliver having a night job yet Johnny had to wonder why someone with a job would have such a... dilapidated wreck as a home. Unable to pull anything relatively interesting from, well, anything, Johnny had resigned himself to his own red-walled home.

_Mmm... that red is irritating.. _Johnny mused over his eightieth bowl of skettios_. Maybe I should paint over it. Will I be staying here that long, though? Eh, considering how slowly this fucking investigation is going I might be here for __**years**__._

Johnny glanced over at the table beside him, the chair creaking ominously. His alias's file lay flat on the wooden thing, the pages littered with horrendous handwriting. Johnny didn't know why the filers refused to use computers. The last argument had been over something like 'traceable' or 'impersonal' but it was hard keeping track of every fight the agents had with the filers.

Johnny watched a cockroach skitter across the floor. Wait... there was a cockroach... in his house. Johnny growled. No fucking bug would make a mockery of him in his own home! Or suggest he was unsanitary in any way! (Johnny conveniently ignored the stacks of skettio's encrusted bowls sitting near the sink.) With new vigour, Johnny began the search for bug spray or any equally horrible chemical to kill the insect with.

* * *

CRACK!

"Fuck." Johnny pulled his head from the cupboard under the sink. "Ow... owowow... jeez." He rubbed his aching skull and hissed.

The search for painful insect melter had turned into a house-wide scavenger hunt. Nowhere, and Johnny had checked everywhere three times, could a single drop of any type of bug death stuff could be found. He **had **found that missing sock under the bed and a bottle of bleach in the bathroom but other than that, nothing.

Johnny glared as a cockroach skittered across the floor. He could have sworn it was the same insect from before. Mocking him. The bastard.

"I guess you have a 'get out of jail free' card." The cockroach paused, antennae waving. Johnny grinned. "At least until I go to the store." The insect twitched then skulked away to hide under the fridge.

If he had been in a less logical mood Johnny could have sworn the insect understood and had gone to sulk in a corner. But that was impossible so Johnny brushed the thought away. Now, however, Johnny had nothing to do and the sun had just reached the middle of the sky. Of course, being a soldier of sorts Johnny woke up quite a bit earlier than most people.

He returned to the table and sighed, flopping into a chair. Maybe he should paint the walls. After all, his alias was a painter and he had no paintings around. Kind of odd for a painter to have no paintings. Johnny always marvelled at the filers abilities to choose alias's that... fit agents. He hadn't thought anyone knew he painted in his spare time but apparently someone had figured it out.

With a smile on his face Johnny went into the hall. He was sure he had seen painting supplies in the hall closet.

* * *

Knockknock

...

Knockknockknockknock

...

KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK—

"WHAT?!"

"Hello! Lovely day to see a neighbour isn't it? Well, **I** thought so and decided to come over here to see you. Haven't been in lately; probably missed you moving in. Oooh, actually I have a **teeny** favour to ask: do you have lemons?

Johnny stared at the man before him, his clothing stained with paint. Some of the green on his hands had transferred to the door but Johnny could hardly care at the moment. Could hardly care because the man standing on his doormat was huge. He wasn't fat, nor muscular, he just took up a lot of space. Johnny knew he could easily kill the man yet the sheer size of him caused warning bells and he almost reached for a nonexistent gun.

"...Lemons?"

"Yes, lemons." The man wrung his hands. "You see, I wanted to make lemonade but had no lemons. I **could** have gone down to the store but all they have is instant lemonade which is **never** as good as real lemonade. Wendy didn't have any lemons and neither did Oliver, which is kind of odd considering he always has lemons but he told me he had just ran out because of some project he was doing—"

"Okay! Yes, I have lemons but I don't know where they are." Johnny's eyes flicked to his fridge. "Come in, take a seat and I'll look for them."

The man gave Johnny a watery smile and manoeuvred his bulk through the doorway. Johnny moved to the fridge and opened the thing, wincing at the blast of cold air. He swallowed when a chair groaned very, very loudly, indicating the man had sat down.

"So which house are you from?" Johnny moved the mustard out of the way.

"Oh, I'm from 778. The small one across the way? It's nice and cozy but I really wish the garage was bigger because my **poor** Hannah just can't get comfortable in such a space—"

"Hannah?"

"Hannah's my car. And **such** a lovely car. She's blue with black stripes and her seats are wonderfully comfortable. I don't know **what** I'd do without my Hannah—"

"Do you know Oliver well?"

"Oh my yes, known him from the time he moved in. He's odd and, before he lost his voice, Timothy just **insisted** he heard weird noises coming from the man's house. I think Oliver's a **little** off the deep end if you know what I mean but I've never had any trouble with him. He's always there to help me with my groceries—"

"Ah, here they are." Johnny pulled the lemons out of the fridge and closed the door. "How many do you need?"

"Oh just one or two. I'm the only one living in the house right now. Used to have a cat but it vanished one day. Oliver showed me its collar and said it had been run over by a car. Can you believe a **cat** can't walk around in such a neighbourhood without being squished by a vehicle? Oliver was **so** nice about it, even offered to kill the man for me. Don't know how he knew who did it but—"

Johnny handed over two lemons and tried to unobtrusively usher the man to the door. "Yes, yes that's fascinating." Finally the man was back outside, still babbling. "Uh, I'm Johnny C."

"Oh dear, how rude of me. I'm George. George Kinan. Haha, **listen** to me, sounding like James Bond. Next thing you know I'll be racing around with a slut on my arm and blowing things up. Thank **you** for the lemons, Johnny. Do you want to come over and drink some of the lemonade? I just made brownies- oh dear, the brownies!"

Johnny watched the man sprint towards his house and collapsed his thin frame against the doorway. _Oh my god, what was __**with **__that man? _He thought, trying to quell his confusion. With a deep, relieved sigh Johnny moved back into the living room. Paint covered the rug and had managed to splatter itself over several walls as well. This did not matter to the agent as, in the middle of the chaos sat an easel.

Johnny stared at his work for a while. It was of a baby bunny with a nail through its chest. It was in the first stages of decomposition and had a tiny ant crawling on one stiffened ear. Its eyes were closed, but a hint of glazed brown peeked around the edges of the right one. Its flesh had been chewed by various tiny animals and edges of yellow bone peeked through greying flesh. The nail was rusted (Johnny was proud he had found the exact color for that) and bent in odd angles. The background was a wooden wall with oddly colored stains. Johnny smiled.

"You're 'Nailbunny'." He told the painting. "Hmmm, what else? Oh, I know, 'fed once then nailed to a wall.' Yeah, that sounds good." He quickly did up a tiny signature in the corner, then scribbled the name of the painting and the caption on a piece of paper to get placed on a plaque later.

The doorbell rang.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA wasn't that chapter just hee-lair-ee-us?

Yeah... work and beta... stuff are(is?) going to slow down the production of this fanfic.

Finally! A chapter longer than fucking three hundred words! Curse you short chapter! CURSE YOU!

This metldown provided by the following sponsors:

Walsmart, Home Shmepo, Mikey's, that japanese store you always wanted to go to but had no time, and why the fuck are you reading this? Are you some sort of author notes... reader thing... go suck a lemon or something!


	7. Danny D

**Author's Note: **Mah Beta finished betaing and so you get a chapter. Really short. The next one is reeeeally long though so I suppose it makes up for it.

Thanks to Androgynous Napkin fer betaing :P

* * *

**Chapter 7- Danny D.**

Johnny blinked. He had a doorbell? Then why hadn't George— whatever. Johnny sighed and trudged once again to the door, wondering if some god out there was laughing at his misery. His boots thudded hollowly against the wooden floor as he turned the knob and pulled.

"What—" He froze.

"Oh... sorry, I was just wondering if you... why are you staring at me like that?"

Johnny snapped his mouth shut with an audible click and swallowed. "Er... sorry. I..." He tried to come up with a good excuse. "Uh... all my neighbours are male?"

The woman grinned, quickly placing a slender hand in front of her mouth. "Sorry, sorry. It's just... 'all of my neighbours are male'? That's horrible."

Johnny sighed. He had never been quick with women. "Oh... right, Wendy. She's not as pretty as you, though."

Green eyes went hard and glassy. "**Don't**."

Unperturbed, Johnny tapped a nail against the doorway. "Bad dates or relationships?"

Her eyes widened. "What... how?"

"Your reaction mostly. Also, you're wearing all black on a plus twenty day with washed out jeans and long sleeves. You have no makeup but simple lipstick and your hair is tied in a pony tail. All the classic signs of a woman who has some rather bad memories and does not want to advertise herself."

She reached up to self-consciously touch her hair then pulled her hand away from the purple locks. "Oh. I didn't know I was so obvious."

"When you paint, you need to see details."

"You paint?"

"Yes. Oh, sorry, Johnny C." He stuck out a hand.

She accepted, her grip firm. "Danielle Diffen, Danny for short. How do you spell your last name?"

Johnny shrugged. "Just the letter C. You know, you're the first person to ask that since I moved in."

"How could they not ask... how long have you been here?"

"About two months by now."

She gasped. "And I never even noticed?! Oh dear, I'm terribly sorry."

Johnny drew back, slightly alarmed. "Um... it's not that big a deal."

She smiled, cocking an eyebrow. "Haven't lived in a residential neighbourhood before, have you?" Johnny shook his head. "Well, for your present you can take me out to coffee. How does tomorrow at four sound?"

"Um... perfect!"

"Great, bye!" Danny turned, purple pony tail swirling in the wind and walked down onto the street.

Johnny grinned. He had a date and hopefully she knew something about Oliver. He paused on his way to his easel. _She never did tell me what she originally came here for._


	8. TEFIBOSTS

**Author's Note:** Looong chapter with a really long name. I love cats. It makes me sad to create an evil one sniff

Thankies to Androgynous Napkin fer teh Betaing.

**

* * *

**

Chapter 8- The Evil Flea-Infested Ball Of Static Trauma Sponge

_Hello, Timmy._

A little boy, eyes wide and luminous in the darkness of his room, sat up. Two glowing green fires sat at the end of his bed.

_I am not pleased, Timmy. You have refused to do what I have asked._

The boy shook his head frantically, arms clenched around a teddy bear.

_Do not deny it, Timmy! I am your Trauma Sponge and I can read that itty bitty mind of yours._

Timothy tightened his hold on the stuffed bear and squeezed his eyes shut.

_Shhh, shhh. It's alright, Timmy. _The fires raised and a delicate paw slid forward into the moonlight. _We know you like the new neighbour. We know you don't want to burn his house down but Timmy... he is dangerous to us. He attracts... other things. Do you remember what happened in that house before?_

Unbidden, controlled memories surfaced, flaring their wings and testing their claws. The little boy whimpered, tears sliding down his pale cheeks as blood splattered once more and the screams echoed in his ears.

_It gathers power, Tim-Tim. George was its test, Oliver its mockery and now... now Johnny is its final laugh. We can't let it win, Timmy. _A soft, velvety tail curled around a tiny foot. _Will you do it, Timmy? For me?_

Eyes open, bloodshot, and his head reluctantly nodded.

* * *

Johnny was hearing voices.

Well, he wasn't precisely certain if the noises that hissed through his brain were really voices but they seemed to be saying... something. Every time he turned, however, there was nothing there.

Johnny paused in his painting, hand clenched around the paintbrush. He whipped around as fast as his training would allow him and glared at the empty space. All that sat behind were his many paintings, lined up to face him. After painting Nail Bunny and the visit of Danny, Johnny had descended into a frenzy. Painting after painting flowed from his fingers, drawing each brushstroke like lodestones, images flaring in his head like fire. Most had been of Danny, smiling and sad, angry and covered in blood. Two... two were different.

Both were of Pillsbury doughboys, each decorated differently. The first he had named Mr. Fuck with a black and white striped shirt proclaiming 'Z?'. Johnny had ruined his original painting design around the blank eyes but he thought the new, cracked look was better. Fuck's hat was inky black with howling ghouls rising from the brim. The second was PsychoDoughboy, living up to his name with spiral eyes that twisted in movement as you stared at them (an effect completely unintended) and a black shirt proclaiming 'FUCK' with gloves. D-boy's hat was mostly white with black skulls staring ahead.

To Johnny it seemed as though the two paintings were speaking to him, the hissing voices originating from the different canvases. No... no, that was ridiculous. Paintings couldn't talk. Maybe he **had** been poisoned by the water...

Then again, the results from the lab hadn't come back yet and every test he'd performed was inconclusive.

_Johnny_

He whipped around, eyes frantically searching the area behind him. Psychodoughboy's mad, painted eyes stared back at him, a mocking grin spreading its black lips. _Argh, _Johnny clutched his head, nails digging into his skull. _What the hell am I hallucinating? Paintings don't talk, can't move. Paintings aren't alive... _Still, Johnny looked over the room one last time before returning to his easel.

He froze.

The constant movements he had made over the course of the painting had splattered the black paint for the background all over the canvas. The painting was supposed to be of a serious Danny, brows lowered, mouth shut and tight. However, a smear of black ran through her eyes and dripped down to create dark tears. Vertical smudges on both cheeks almost hollowed them out in an odd coincidence. She looked... dead. And for some reason it made Johnny love her all the more.

* * *

Oliver walked. Oliver liked walking. Walking helped clear his head. This walk, however, wasn't clearing anything and that made Oliver mad. Lately, Oliver noticed, his head was even more fuzzy then he remembered. And, for some odd reason, it seemed to get worse whenever he went near Johnny's house. Oliver liked Johnny. Sure, he seemed a bit serious and... oooh, a squirrel.

Oliver walked. Blood splattered his combat boots and a fuzzy trophy was clenched in his left hand. He meandered his way through the small residential district and stopped to watch the children at the park. One of the kids was being picked on by three larger ones. The small one snivelled and sobbed, mucus running from his nose while the others laughed and pointed. Oliver flung a knife and walked some more. He listened with detached curiosity at the screams that followed him past the park.

What had he been thinking about? Oh, right, Johnny. Such a funny name. Oliver tried to move through the dark fog of his brain and recall if Johnny was short for anything. He didn't think so. Well, Johnny didn't seem like a John. Oliver found himself outside of Johnny's house. Which was on fire.

Huh.


	9. Things That Burn AND Make Noise

**Author's Note: **Oh my goodness. I came back to this story and did not realize how bad of a cliffhanger I left you with for six odd months. Well, I've updated everything in my profile including what I am working on and the little journal detailing my plans etcetera. So... um... yeah. Sowwy for the horrendous temporary ending ;_;

and thank you to Androgynous Napkin for BETAing

* * *

**Chapter 9- Things That Burn AND Make Noise**

Johnny was panicking. Flames leaped everywhere he turned, thick, acrid smoke choking him. He stumbled into the kitchen, wincing as black ash stung his eyes. He coughed and whirled around, searching for a way out. Pain arched across his hand and he jerked away, agony flashing through each finger. Johnny reflexively clutched them and screamed as burning hot pain flashed through the reddening skin. The scream cut off as black smoke coated his throat and he doubled over with sharp, aching coughs.

As if in a dream the fire parted for one moment and revealed a door. Not caring that the aperture had not been there before, Johnny lunged for the doorknob and flung it open. He stumbled down the stairs, which seemed endless, and collapsed on his hands and knees to the concrete below.

He shivered and coughed, tasting coppery blood on his tongue. Johnny struggled to get up, to run, to escape. His knees wobbled and he almost collapsed but reached out and grasped a doorknob. Slowly, he pulled himself up, hand throbbing and burning by his side. To his shock there were even more stairs below the landing, the knotted wood descending into blackness.

_Over here, Johnny._

Johnny twisted, stumbling in his smoke-filled daze and clutched a crack in the wooden wall for support. Bloodshot eyes frantically searched the darkness and he clenched his teeth against another fit of hacking.

"Who--" he cleared his throat. "Who are you?"

Colors swirled around him, the walls blending into one massive dark blob. Johnny swallowed, wincing at the raw pain that shot through his throat.

_I... I am a product of your imagination, Johnny._

"What, like some sort of fucked up schizophrenic hallucination?"

A chuckle, dark and molassesly that burned in Johnny's gut and raised bile to his already harsh throat. _I suppose. _A shift in attention and it was if a great weight was pressing into Johnny, driving him to his knees. _You have... quite a lot of imagination. How do you think... you would fare if it went away?_

Despite the pressing headache, Johnny laughed, fighting the urge to vomit. "Zat's 'mpossible! Yer fuckin' wit my brain!" He clutched his head, eyes bulging. "Urgh..... ow. Fuck."

_Mmmmm... perhaps it is impossible. Oliver certainly did not seem affected too much. It is possible... to redirect it._

Johnny barely registered the voice. His brain tried to explode through his skull and he was certain the warm trickling down his chin was blood. He was vulnerable in this position, he realized. The fire couldn't have stopped and... oh god he was somewhere below with no escape. He was going to die. At first he felt utter terror and adrenaline rushed through his veins, urging him to run. But he knew that wouldn't help and he calmed his pounding heart. He... was trapped with no way out and he was going to burn to death. Or die from smoke inhalation.

Johnny flung out his non-burned hand and found something to pull himself up. It was warm and dripped through his fingers. He opened teary eyes.

Johnny gasped, gagging on the sudden taste of pennies in his mouth. He tried to jerk his hand away from the wall but it wouldn't budge. The wall bled bright, fresh red. Leaking through the cracks and knots, it pooled on uneven surfaces and ran runnels of peeling ochre through the grain. The blood was creeping onto his skin, fingers slowly consumed with hot crimson.

_Johnny.... _The pressure in his head, the sudden explosion of hissing whispers, all bunched together in his pounding, foggy skull. _What would you do, Johnny, if you didn't have to die? What if... you could live another day, live to go on that date with Danny. What would you sacrifice for that? _

Johnny stared in a sort of numb horror as the red creeped up each finger and spread thin tendrils across his palm. He could smell the acrid stench of smoke wafting from somewhere above and his lungs ached with every breath. Johnny blinked. He didn't want to die. He wanted to at least have a chance with Danny, he wanted to live and he wanted that fucking fire out, gone, kaput. The wounded man turned his eyes to one of the walls and whispered into the darkness, half hoping the bile-inducing voice wouldn't hear.

"Anything."

_Excellent. _

And everything went black.

Fucked up schizophrenic hallucination indeed.


	10. Oh Shmee, Dear Shmee

**Author's Notes: **Aaaand last chapter that has been written so far. Chapter 11 is being worked on and plot is happenin'... yup.

Thanks to Androgynous Napkin for BETAing.

* * *

**Chapter 10- Oh Shmee, Dear Shmee**

Timmy stood on the curb, a ratty cat beside him, tail twitching. The cat gazed at the house before them, its bright green eyes almost glowing in the blinding sunlight. Timmy raised a hand to his mouth, thought better of it and began chewing on his teddy bear's ear instead.

"I did burn it... right?"

The cat cocked a furless ear and growled.

"I didn't know they could do that."

The feline's fur rose in patchy anger. Timmy flinched away from it and clutched his teddy tighter.

The house showed evidence of recent damage. The windows were warped and cracked, the wood slightly blackened. All of the previously green lawn had vanished and muddy soil oozed from every orifice left behind. Other than those faint traces of battle, however, it was as if the fire never existed. To Timmy the house seemed a lot more menacing but to the cat... it was a mockery. The waste, the leftover hatred and offal was laughing at him.

_Look at me_, the cat was certain it was saying. _I managed to lure three people here! Three! And now I have one that can feed me! Nah nah nah nah nah!_

The cat stared up at the trembling boy, green eyes blazing. This one was becoming old, habituated. It meant very bad news for the Trauma Sponge as, no longer being fed, it would fade into oblivion.

But the system was flawed.

Both systems.

**********************

Oliver watched. Timmy and that evil ball of dirt beside him. He knew that look. Timmy's 'I'm confused' look and the claw-fest... Oliver grinned. Well, the tailless monstrosity was obviously angry. It stalked off, nub held high and left Timmy. Oliver frowned. Timmy was small. Alone was bad. Well, he'd have to remedy that.

"Hiiiiii, Tim-Tim!"

Timmy had a teddy bear, Oliver noticed. It was kind of a creepy bear. He was clutching it awfully tight.

"Who's that?"

A trembling voice, barely above a hissed whisper.

Oliver grinned. How cute. People and naming things. Like George and... uh...

What was he thinking about again? Oliver glanced around. He was in a building now. And dripping... dripping blood. Another blank spot. They worried Oliver. He didn't like losing control like that and- hey, nice boots.

Oliver walked out from the building, which had gathered a crowd of mostly police officers, and marveled over his new boots. They were very nice boots. Yes, nice boots indeed. Oliver tried to remember the way home and decided to follow an old lady with a shopping cart. Now, there was something he had to remember about Johnny....

**********************

"Hiiiiii, Tim-Tim!"

Timmy jumped and whirled to face Oliver. He didn't like Oliver because the scary man was always showing him scary things. Like those children... or 777. Timmy stared up at the tall man and swallowed. Oliver's expression went from happy to puzzled in the blink of an eye and he pointed at Timmy's teddy bear.

"Who's that?"

Timmy shifted his feet nervously and tried to work up enough courage to speak. He barely managed to whisper.

"Shmee."

Oliver grinned his scary grin and opened his mouth. He paused. Timmy sighed in relief. That expression always meant Oliver would turn around and go somewhere else. Timmy didn't know why but it never failed.

Indeed, seconds later Oliver turned on is heel and marched off, determination in every step. Timmy watched him go and gave the relatively unmarked 777 a furtive glance before turning home.

"C'mon Shmee. Let's go see if mom's got cookies."


End file.
